My son Walter’s spring soccer season ended today – under the rain. It’s as if we never left London. Now I understand how prescient these kids were to name themselves the “Aqua Dominators” at the beginning of their blue-shirted season. The good news is that Walter age 9 really learned how to play the “beautiful game” during his seven plus years in the UK. He does not quite yet bend it like Beckham but neither does he sport any manly tattoos.

Passing the ball must be like underarm hair something that boys must await puberty to master; however there are glimpses of glory. The diving header (or as his English godfather Ed calls it “ ‘it me on me noggin mate”); the deft weaving through three defenders to score; or the diving penalty defense in goal. It’s great to watch your son score the goals you had planned to score yourself but somehow never did. It is also gratifying to watch teammates grow through the season and come to know their foibles (“Oh no not another pass across your own goal mouth”) and their triumphs.

Some of the fathers do get a bit carried away. Pacing the sidelines like frustrated Alex Fergusons (we Barcelona fans like our Fergusons to be frustrated) barking out useless commands to their children (“center the ball” “look for the open man”) or loudly overruling the hapless referee. The best invention in youth soccer is the “silent week” the team played earlier in the season. In those matches no noise is permitted from the sidelines including from the coaches. The idea is to let the kids organize themselves and learn in effect to coach themselves on the field. Not only did the team play well on its own but the parents (yes there are some moms) also learned that a marionette’s string does not invisibly connect their larynxes to their sons’ feet.

Some of the better kids are off to soccer camp for the summer. Walter has his own version –a daily regime of full field one-on-one against his dad. Judging by the spring season this may be the year that son starts to beat dad in one sport after another.